FATHER Kavanagh
Pen in hand and his notebook open before him, he was ready to do what he did every November:
Get started on his Christmas list.
He had vacated the French desk in the study and adopted the kitchen island as a command center. At the east end of the island, he wrote letters, paid bills, stashed his laptop, and kept a handy trove of books. The west end was reserved for culinary pursuits.
When Cynthia cooked, he often read aloud to her from Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, Wendell Berry, or, out of long affection, George Herbert and Wordsworth. Early on, they agreed that poetry paired well with food prep, fiction worked best after dinner, and nonfiction was for reading alone, silent as a monk.
By seven-thirty a.m., he had prayed with his wife, checked his sugar, had his shot, and polished off his stone-ground oatmeal with raw honey and multigrain toast. This upbeat start on the morning had made him over-confident-his pen was poised but nothing was happening. The grand expectation of churning through the list was morphing into a muse.
He considered the books spilling out of their allotted space and encroaching on the laptop. Back in the day, which seemed a cool hundred years ago, he'd been a bachelor priest in his slip-covered wingchair, avidly reading through a pile of books. Books were his friends, his family, his mode of travel, his relief from the woes of the vestry.
Somehow, and certainly not by his own effort, he'd gone from a bachelor with blood kin consisting of one lone cousin, Walter, to a family his cousin called 'humongous.' While such a family delivered equally humongous dividends of pleasure, his reading time had taken a hit.
Before Cynthia, he'd been unmoored by the prospect of sharing his time with a wife. How much of his time could a wife possibly need? Now he knew and he did not regret even a minute with his cheerful, artistic, and beautiful wife. He was unmoored no more; but settled in. In a groove, you might say, though definitely not in a rut.
And there was Dooley-not of his blood, but of his heart. At the age of eleven, Dooley had landed on his doorstep, a thrown-away boy-barefoot in shredded overalls, with a mouth that a mother of yore would have washed out with soap. Call it a miracle that today his adopted son-now a successful veterinarian with his own practice-had a beautiful, artistic wife himself. And two kids that Cynthia and he were over the moon about.
A phenomenal string of events had cast him in roles he'd never dreamed of fulfilling-father, husband, father-in-law, brother, brother-in-law, great-uncle, grandfather.
There was Jack, a lovable seven-year-old mash-up of cowboy boots and imagination, and Sadie, a going-on-three-year-old who had taken down every defense in her grandpa's arsenal. He'd never given his heart so freely.
With Cynthia, he'd fought giving his heart. There was the inarguable fact that he'd already given it to God-though only to a certain degree, as he later realized. That had seen him through a decades-long passage until he had a revelation: God's love for his children wasn't just for them to have and to hold, it was to freely, spontaneously give away-and to gratefully receive from others. Why hadn't he understood this before?
That awakening had opened both his heart and his intellect to a sober realization-while he'd spent years being afraid to love, he'd been far more terrified of receiving it. He had begun at once to work these truths into daily practice. Not easy. And not overnight. But the process had performed its share of miracles-had, in fact, at the tender age of sixty-two, gotten him married.
His abandoned French desk, given to him recently by a former parishioner, now displayed an archive of framed family photos. There was Dooley and Lace's Sadie, miraculously born to a mother long pronounced unable to conceive.
A few years ago, he learned he had a half-brother. Out of time and despair, hope and prayer, Henry-a brother. They both resolved to drop the 'half' business. He and Cynthia had attended Henry's Holly Springs wedding-an event that gave him a witty and agreeable sister-in-law. He studied the wedding photograph, searching Henry's face for any resemblance to his own. Zero. But they both loved poetry and starched handkerchiefs and letters written in cursive. He had a laugh at the memory of taking Henry by the shoulders, looking him in the eye, and saying, 'Brother, I forgive you for being taller and better-looking.'
To go from a family consisting of a cousin to the present-day slew was a sea change, calling for a new way of dealing with Christmas giving. In years past, he had made a list. Now he must make A List.
Cynthia breezed into the kitchen in a vague cloud of her signature wisteria scent.
'You wear perfume for the grans?'
'Jack says he loves the way his Granny smells-it makes him sneeze. He also loves making his own picture book. You'll see it soon; it's about bugs. When he turns all that talent loose in the world . . . wow! How about your Poetry with Grandpa syllabus?'
'I need one more run through the town library. Poetry for three-year-olds is scarce.' As Lace's mural-painting commissions increased, she needed help with the kids. He and Cynthia were giving a hand when Lily Flower was otherwise employed.
His wife was applying lipstick without the aid of a mirror. It was his job to give a thumbs-up if she hit the mark. She hit the mark while eyeing the kitchen island.
'Could you clean some of the stuff off the counter?' she said. 'It runneth over.'
'I was just thinking that.'
'I'm making pasta for the weekend and . . . ' She gestured. ' . . . all those Billy Collins books.'
'But you love Billy Collins.'
'I'm crazy about Billy Collins, but not when I'm making pasta, which takes up gobs of room.'
'Consider it done.'
She gave him a smooch on the cheek. 'Love you, sweetheart.'
'Love you back.'
'Are you off to the hospital?'
'Tomorrow,' he said.
'See you at five, then. Could you pick up a lemon for tonight?'
'Will do. Anything else, give me a shout. Love to the kids. Tell them I'll be out soon.'
'Ooops, I got lipstick on your cheek.'
'Leave it. I'm branded.'
And away she flew, eager for what life had to offer.
He had always started his Christmas list with the nurses. Who could make it without nurses? Not the doctors, not the patients. How many years had he spent plowing up the hill to visit the ever-changing stable of patients, assisted by nurses in his labors of consolation? Even the sour ones had their place in the scheme of things.
And didn't nurses love chocolate? Wasn't that their favorite thing to go home to even if they had a husband who was good-looking and would carry out the garbage? But the rules had shifted when he wasn't looking. He'd been told that what nurses want now is gift certificates. Nurses want to choose their chocolate themselves.
Good for nurses for speaking out and taking charge!
Five gift certificates for chocolate. It felt good just getting that on paper. Unlike his free-ranging wife, he enjoyed the boundaries imposed by a list.
He would save his wife 'til last on the list because she required more than a bit of head-scratching. 'Don't buy me anything,' she said just yesterday. 'I have everything I could possibly want or need. Just write me a love letter. Please, honey.'
He loved it when she called him honey.
He remembered the Year of the Bathrobe-he had searched for one-hundred-percent cotton with pockets-she favored pockets-and matching slippers. Though he was convinced he had a home run, she had seemed . . . what? Dismayed wouldn't cover it.
A more recent Christmas gift had its own downside. According to rule, they agreed to give each other one gift only-no cheating by giving more. It had to be utilitarian, and they had to keep mum so it would be a surprise. She liked surprises.
They had ended up giving each other the same thing-a smoothie blender. The same make and model. Surprise all around! Hers, however, had been on sale and she had saved thirty bucks. Which meant that he'd be returning the one he bought. All he had to do was hike to the recycle bin in a freezing rain and retrieve the box and dig through the foam peanuts that went berserk all over the place and locate the shipping label and the form that asked why the item was being returned, to which he replied It's a long story, and then rewrap the blasted thing and schlep it to the UPS drop-off.
Looking back, his own biggest want had once been for a world globe, and she had been thrilled to give him one. Years later-six or seven, maybe-he was still perfectly satisfied with his globe. Lighted. In a mahogany stand. How could he want more?
'I'd love to give you something you'd really, deeply enjoy,' she said yesterday. 'Something that would make you feel, I don't know, seventeen again?'
'I have her,' he said.
She seemed to like that argument, but still . . .
Since they married, he'd written a love letter or two. The one in which he plagiarized a passage from Duff Cooper had been a hit. Cooper had enjoyed a career of writing torrid love letters to his wife, Diana, before dying at sea in '54. But the letter currently under consideration would have to come entirely from his own striving.
Gus was awake and panting at his feet.
The red leash that his hundred-and-ten-pound Bouvier had worn was of course too large for a rescue of thirty-three pounds soaking wet. He had punched a few holes and used his leather cutter to nip the excess.
Out they went into the mountain fog.
So far, November was an unseasonably warm month, not cold enough for a fire in the hearth. This weekend would be different; the temperature was predicted to drop by several degrees, and they had a half-cord of hardwood he was itching to burn.
This was ground fog; those headed down the mountain would be driving the first few miles in a cloud. He was a fog fan. And no wonder-he was Irish. Gus also had a touch of the Irish. His dog was fond of music, had once lapped up a spilled Guinness at a Meadowgate party, and was inclined to good humor often resulting in a grin.
He had believed grinning dogs merely a staple of YouTube, but now he had one of his own-who, by the way, could also bark with a ball in his mouth. He absolutely did not deserve such a talented dog.
He spied Emma Newland barreling around the corner with Snickers, a twelve-year-old rescue. At this distance, he could not run nor could he hide from his former church secretary and personal Genghis Kahn. He zipped his jacket, turned up the collar, armored himself. He could tell by Gus's bark that his dog was not into this encounter; Gus had met Snickers on other occasions and was unimpressed.
'Why don't you get another leash?' she yelled over the barking.
'This leash is fine,' he yelled back.
'Seems like it would remind you of you know who.'
She had seldom called his former companion by name.
'I like being reminded of Barnabas!' he shouted into the din.
Snickers retreated behind his owner, growling, as Gus took leeway to sniff Emma's shoes. Black. Sturdy. Size ten. Triple A. She was proud of the triple A. As her former priest and so-called boss, he knew almost everything about this woman whose desk had sat less than three feet from his own. He had to hand it to her-Emma Newland could, in a heartbeat, make three feet feel like three inches.
She gave him the eye, as if she'd caught him being naughty in some inconceivable way. 'What brings you out so early?'
'Gus!' he said.
Up ahead, the first squirrel of the morning. And away they went at a trot.
He and Gus were blowing across the parking lot at Mitford School when he met Grace Murphy, speed-walking toward the school’s front entrance. Blond hair in braids, bifocals firmly in place, a wide-open smile displaying a hatchwork of braces on wayward teeth. Grace was one of his favorite people.
'Good morning, Father! And good morning, Gusarino.' She stooped, girded by a backpack of considerable size, to give his happy dog a head scratch.
'We're glad to see you out brightening up the world,' he said.
'I'm reading to our English class this morning. I'm sort of nervous!'
'What are you reading?'
'Willa Cather On Writing.'
'Willa Cather? Remind me what grade you're in?'
'Fifth because I skipped third,' she said. 'Next week, we'll be reading from Eudora Welty's book on writing. I'm co-teaching a whole American Literature unit with Miss Phillips. Got to go, Father! Bye, Gussie! Have a great day!'
'The Lord be with you!' he called after her.
'And also with you!' she called back. Grace was an acolyte at Lord's Chapel, wise in the ways of liturgical response.
He felt the smile on his face, the way it softened his skin that was busy drinking clean mountain air.
Two squirrels later, he was back in the kitchen, staring at The List.
He was a dash fatigued from their walk. Supplying St. Mark's in Holding had been a mixed blessing. Full priestly duties June through October, combined with driving up and down the mountain, had been a stretch. In the five months of priesting a troubled parish, he had counted heavily on the prayer that never fails.
Back to business.
His mother had been the Christmas-list maker of all time-everything inscribed in a stenographer's notebook by July seventh, when she closed her gardens to the public. She set at once to the task of making pin cushions, pillowcases, embroidered dresser scarves, the occasional sweater or baby blanket, and stacks of tea towels and aprons from printed flour sacks.
'Th' woman is an industry,' said his grandfather.
She also used flour sacks to make his boxers for her mortified son. He could depend on the sight of them under the tree-a starched four-pack wrapped in white tissue and adorned with a holly sprig.
He remembered hiding like a common thief when exchanging his britches for running shorts in the school locker room. He had nonetheless been spied in this covert maneuver, and the shamings were a memory he detested. He was fourteen when he finally wrangled store-bought from his mother, the family exchequer.
Copyright © 2025 by Jan Karon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
